Night Bus to Gwangju
I observe through glass that also doubles me,
each glare that gleams a halo through the window steam.
It used to mean something: A hanging lantern,
like a bell calling out in the night. A single bulb
that wavers, and in the distance more blips
plotting the constellations of civilization,
then a strobe that floods a frosty field;
Two neon crosses, one illuminated red,
a higher one shining white;
And hanging above a gap, accounting
for a mountain, facing downward
in prostration like the moon, to bathe
a frozen cabbage bed in an amber hue of light.
What has been fashioned on this peninsula
of grief? Everyone I travel with
bows to tiny screens.